Don’t Take it Away From Me
by zweebie
Summary: "My lot—you know what I mean, the Angels—they’re giving me a second chance.” “I’m sorry, what? A—” Suddenly, Crowley can’t speak, but he pushes through the stutter to get the words out. “A second chance? What the Hell do you mean?” OR, The Angels and the Demons have a new plan to get the traitors Aziraphale and Crowley out of the picture, and it might just be what finally tears t


Life on Earth is, well. It's nothing compared to the shit that happened six thousand years ago, before the ineffable plan finally put its ineffable foot down and created a planet in order to settle the disputes. At that point no one knew that was the point of the planet. It was just a fun new adventure, a new initiative from the big guys upstairs.

Life on Earth isn't peaceful, no. It's just as much a war as it would have been, had he and Aziraphale not stopped Armageddon, just in quieter, smaller ways. It's conflict in touches, chaos in words. It's still difficult and grand and beautiful and terrible, but in things that would never have been noticed by either Crowley's or Aziraphale's lot. Things and people.

"What's this about? Why the fancy invitation? Why the theatrics?" Crowley asks, stepping up into the little gazebo that he and Aziraphale used to meet at sometimes. It's in the middle of a park, and it's not exactly conspicuous, which is why Aziraphale had never called a meeting there. Crowley just liked the dramatics of it. The lighting, the way it feels like once you're inside of it, all the attention in the world is directed at you.

"Uh, well." Aziraphale stumbles on the words, and Crowley feels something cold go through him. The truth is that these meetings would have been normal months ago, but they hadn't talked in such a formal way since before the near-apocalypse. Since before that week. There was a time when their friendship was all business, all neatly returned favors and contracts. Even if Crowley might have wanted more than that, well, it was clear that Aziraphale wasn't ready. Ever since that week, though, things had been different. Easy. Aziraphale rarely came to Crowley's house, because 1) he hated the grey, and because 2) his concern for Crowley's plants was consistent and infuriating, but Crowley often showed up unprompted at the bookshop. He was always welcome. They spent their nights getting drunk and lolling about on the tartan furniture, alternatively talking or watching period movies to spot the inaccuracies. They've been keeping track. They were tied for weeks, but as of the last night Crowley was five points ahead because of a certain movie that called Shakespeare straight. He was not.

Crowley never moved in, and nothing ever really happened, but they spent a good portion of their lives together, walking in the park, going to museums (at Aziraphale's urging). They'd probably been to every restaurant in London in the last seven months. The fact that Aziraphale thought it necessary to arrange such a formal meeting is worrying at best.

"See, there's been some new developments, Crowley, and I thought it important you knew them." Aziraphale is speaking quickly, but that's not new. He's also fiddling with his fingers, which is new. Well, not new so much as alarming.

"Yeah, but what new developments warrant this?"

"The—well, they, I suppose, my lot—although I guess they're not exactly my lot anymore, but maybe they are, I mean, hear what I have to say—"

"Aziraphale, stop. Calm down."

Aziraphale looks up, meeting his eyes for the first time. They're big and (beautiful) frantic and there's both something terrified and something lovely inside of them. "Yes, um. I'm sorry. My lot—you know what I mean, the Angels—they're giving me a second chance. They visited my bookshop last night to give me the news, and—"

"I'm sorry, what? A—" Suddenly, Crowley can't speak, but he pushes through the stutter to get the words out. "A second chance? What the Hell do you mean?"

"They're letting me back, Crowley," Aziraphale says, and he smiles, but it's got none of his usual brightness. "They're forgiving me."

"What?" Crowley's voice is soft.

"I'm getting a pardon. They say that as long as I do not cause any trouble again, I can be an Angel again. I can go back."

Crowley stands still for a moment, shaking his head, trying to decide what exactly he has to say to that. He can't. "Why?" is the only thing he can think of.

"This is a celebration, Crowley. We're not on the run anymore. Well, I'm not."

"A—a celebration? What about us, Aziraphale? Are you just—are you just throwing everything away?"

"There is no us, no everything. Oh, can't you just be happy for me, Crowley?"

"For Heaven's sake, Aziraphale—" Crowley cries, hardly stopping to realize what he'd said, "don't tell yourself this is a good thing. You wouldn't have brought me here, to this place, if this was a happy occasion. You wouldn't have made an occasion of it. You would have told me at the Ritz, or in your bookshop!"

"Frankly, I don't think you are anyone to tell me how I'm feeling," Aziraphale says, standing up a little straighter.

"Aziraphale, we're friends. You can't just—just leave."

"We're not friends! And you have no right to tell me what I can and cannot do. You know what, I don't know what I was doing, telling you. You're a demon, of course you don't understand."

Crowley steps forward, and Aziraphale stiffens. It's like a knife through Crowley's heart. He'd thought they were past this. Past Aziraphale's blind trust of heaven, past his stubborn belief that an Angel and a demon can't be friends. He'd thought that they'd built something, but apparently all it took was one of Aziraphale's Angel friends to send everything crashing back down. "Listen to me, Angel. This isn't—this isn't what you want. Can't you see that? They're—they don't care about you."

"Oh, and you do?" Aziraphale huffs.

"I—Oh, damn it." Crowley rakes his hands through his hair. He can't believe it's come to this. "I like you, you idiot. Earth is—it would be miserable without you."

"I—" Aziraphale says, and something in his face shuts down. Damn it, this is all going wrong. This isn't how it's supposed to be. "Well, I'm certainly not sure what I'm supposed to say to that."

"Stay here. Do you not want to be on Earth? Is that it? We can leave, together. We can go anywhere."

"Crowley, this is dreadfully improper. I don't know what you expected—"

"Aziraphale, please," Crowley begs, and he's never felt so open, so vulnerable. The worst thing is that this can't be Aziraphale standing in front of him, because Aziraphale makes him feel safe. And safe is the farthest thing from what he's feeling now.

"I think it's best that I leave you now."

"Aziraphale—"

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and straightens his bow tie. This can't be happening. "I'll be going, now, Crowley." He turns and walks quickly down the stairs, then turns halfway. "You know where to find me," he adds, and then he's rushing off.

Crowley rubs his hands over his face. "Oh, damn it. Fuck!" He roars, kicking the fence and then leaning on it. He's so, so tired, and even though the sight of Aziraphale walking away from him is a familiar enough sight, it hurts more than usual. Because he thought it wouldn't happen again.

So many times this had happened. So many times Crowley had reached out, and Aziraphale had pushed him away.

And Crowley gets it. He's a demon, it's in his blood to be evil. To be wicked. And Aziraphale is so...not wicked. He's so delightfully good. Ridiculously so. Even when he's going against Gabriel, he's still such an...Angel. It makes Crowley want to be better, for him.

"Long time no see, Crowley."

The voice is high and rough and too familiar for comfort. Crowley groans. "Not really," he replies, and turns to face the demons bearing down on him.

* * *

"So, what is this about? You gonna punish me? You gonna take out your holy water, try and kill me? It didn't work out too well for you last time, if I remember right."

Crowley's forgotten the dankness of hell, the claustrophobic corridors and chaotic hallways. He's never found it stifling, but after months in open London, strolling in parks and open-air markets, he almost can't stand it. And all of the demons are frightfully pretentious. Crowley had never taken any of the higher powers seriously, whether heaven or hell, but he'd never realized that the demons really did have the exact same superiority complex as the Angels.

"C'mon, Hastur, I thought we were friends. Remember the Archduke? World War I? The crusades?" He stretches out the -ades in a mocking tone.

Beelzebub couldn't spare the time to try and capture him this time, apparently, because it's Hastur leading him through the halls. Crowley's been chattering away this entire time, making such an effort to get Hastur to crack and explain what the Hell is going on. Crowley had thought after the little trick he and Aziraphale had pulled that the powers that be would finally leave them alone, until the next Great War at least. Unless this is the next Great War. Unless it's already starting.

Hastur has bound Crowley's wrists in something that he thought at first was rope, but seemed to have moved and squirmed several times during their hike.

"What is this stuff? It's not rope, and I thought that that was protocol."

Crowley chews on the inside of his cheek a little, looking around. He doesn't recognize the route they're taking, which makes no sense. Sure, it's packed, and it reeks of human waste and other things that Crowley doesn't want identified, but it was home for six-thousand years. You don't just renovate Hell.

"Hey, where are we, by the way? I've walked through all these halls, but I don't recognize this one."

Finally, Hastur answers, gruffly. "Things've changed in six months."

"He speaks!" he crows. "Now that wasn't so difficult, darling, was it?" He resists the urge to make a face. Darling? Since when does he speak like Aziraphale?

"Every since you and your Angel friend fucked up the Great War, we've had to adjust our systems slightly."

"Oh, well, good. This place is worse than the sewers in London."

"What's a sewer?" Hastur asks, wrinkling his nose. Crowley raises his eyebrows at him.

"Really, am I the only demon here that knows anything about Earth? You all haven't been doing your research. What do you do now that I'm gone?"

Hastur says nothing, instead turning Crowley roughly ninety degrees and shoving him into a door, using Crowley's body to push it squarely open. Crowley's face collides head on with the wet stone, and some of the thin layer of slime sticks to him. He gags.

"Earth has made you soft," Hastur says, leering down at him.

"Oh, I'm soft? I seem to remember you fainting the first time you walked into a candy store. Too many bright colors, I believe you said."

"I—" Hastur sputters indignantly. There was a time when Crowley would have gotten a certain amount of glee out of making him speechless, but now, there's nothing.

"Yeah, thought so," he drawls. "So, get on it. Eternal punishment, whatever you like. Chop chop."

Hastur disappears into a door off the side of the room, and Crowley gets a chance to look around. It's nothing like the courtrooms Angels usually use on traitors—it's smaller, for one. And it doesn't have the window along one side.

What's going to happen? For six thousand years—well, six thousand and one years, now, things had been good. A turmoil, but good.

He'd had a friend. But now…

Crowley has no idea what the future holds. And for once he doesn't have anything to fight for.

It hits him in a sudden, knee-buckling wave. He would fall, if not for the conveniently placed wall.

There is nothing beyond this. Sure, there's Earth, but does he really want to go back there? To his empty apartment, every day for eternity? Alpha Centauri, and the rest of space, for that matter, are out too—he wasn't serious about that. Well, he was, but. It was more the company than the prospect of seeing the universe again. And Aziraphale seems to be really gone this time.

Hastur steps out of the room, Beelzebub in tow. Crowley steps away from the wall, straightening himself. Even if he isn't planning to fight back, he might as well keep his last measley shred of dignity intact.

"Come to torture me for eternity, have you?"

"Torture of a sort, yes," Beelzebub says, standing in front of Aziraphale. Hastur stands a few feet behind. "We've got plans for you, Crowley."

"I presume so. Do you happen to have a chair I can sit in? Bit uncomfortable, standing with my hands tied."

"Your comfort isn't our concern. And besides, you won't be staying here for long."

"Well, then, take me to the torture room! Get out the pitchforks, and...the fire, etcetera etcetera." Crowley has no idea what the Hell he's doing, which he's not used to, but he tells himself he's one step ahead of the game as per usual. He's just waiting for them to slip up so that he can leave. ("You can't leave, Crowley," Aziraphale's voice echoes in his head. "There isn't anywhere to go.") "It's a big universe," Crowley mutters, and Hastur steps forward and raises a hand. Crowley flinches, and he hates himself for it.

"Soft," Hastur sneers, grinning his half-baked, thoroughly evil grin. Why can't Crowley be like that? Stupid and wicked through and through? Things would be oh so much easier.

"Oh, get out," Crowley whines. "What are you even going to do? Holy water doesn't work."

"See, holy water is the only torture method we've used for millenia. You've helped us to rectify that."

Well, good on me, then. Great one, Crowley.

"We'd never looked at human torture before. The tower of London is an especially interesting specimen, chaining people up and stretching them until they burst. But you can't torture a demon, not like that, because we aren't human. But guess what?"

Beelzebub steps toward Crowley and leans in mockingly. "You were assigned a body," she says.

Crowley takes a deep breath. "Yup."

"We're not keeping you here, Crowley. There's no use in that. We're going to send you far, far, away, so that you can never get back to Earth. But first," she beckons to Hastur, who rushes forward with a suitcase, "we have to make sure you can't miracle your way back." The suitcase is dark and grimy and the fabric is peeling off around the edges, but the state of something means nothing in terms of how dangerous it is. Crowley's been a demon for over six thousand years, he should know.

Hastur opens it and turns it toward Crowley, then steps back, just letting it sit there in front of him.

Knives. Dreadful looking ones.

None of them are bloodstained or dirty, like Crowley would expect from a place like this, but he knows the only reason for that is that they've never been used before.

He'll be the first one. Yippee.

He steps back involuntarily.

"Why now? Why six months later? Why didn't you do this immediately after we fucked up the ending of the world?"

Beelzebub folds her hands behind her back. "We needed time to strategize. And we needed to wait for the optimal moment to dispose of your Angel friend."

There's a pause. Oh, God, no. Please.

"Aziraphale," he breathes. "You're going to kill him!"

"Nah," Hastur smirks. "The Angels will."

Crowley can believe it, but God damn it if Aziraphale didn't trust the Angels with his whole, stupid Angelic heart. Even after everything they'd done. Crowley thought they were past that, that Aziraphale had moved on. But no, he still so desperately wanted a mission, a side to fight on. No wonder he'd been acting odd the past months. Damn it. If only the Angel wasn't so good.

Crowley needs to find him.

He jerks his hands apart, tries with all his might to get them free. But the rope does nothing but tighten, and then (that's impossible) start to slither up his arm. It occurs to Crowley that he never got an answer from Hastur about what the hell the rope really was. "Let me go. For Satan's sake!"

Beelzebub snaps her fingers. Crowley's knees buckle under him, and he falls into a chair that wasn't there before. He yells, and Hastur laughs out loud. "I swear, if neither of you unties me right this second—"

"You'll what?" Beelzebub asks. "You'll miracle us?"

Crowley grunts as he tries to snap his fingers, but the rope has slithered around his hands, binding them completely still. It snakes around his arms—snakes, how fitting—and begins to tighten. Crowley yells through gritted teeth. "Call it off. I'll do anything, really. I'll—I'll work for you again. An eternity of servitude, no acting up ever again. Just let Azir—just let the Angel go."

"How sweet. Unfortunately, we don't need you anymore down here. Hastur?" Hastur steps forward and reaches for the suitcase, and Crowley takes a deep breath. Beelzebub had said that they were going to make sure he never miracled anything again, and he knows what that means. "Cut off his fingers."

* * *

"So, shall we discuss the terms of my new position?" Aziraphale asks, struggling to keep up with Gabriel as they hurry down the hall. All of the hallways in Heaven are high-ceilinged and wide, and they all have floor-to-ceiling windows. The view out of each window is artificial, so it doesn't matter that there is, if we're looking at the technicalities, open sky on the other side of the wall not the Great Pyramids. The sunlight is streaming in and bathing everything with a midmorning glow. It looks like happiness, like home. Does it feel like home? To be completely honest, Aziraphale has no idea.

Aziraphale's emotions are a turmoil, but they've been a turmoil for the past six thousand years, so that's not new at all. It's just making sense of the turmoil that's difficult now. Most centuries, it's the normal stress of the job, the delight at the humanity of it all, and the annoyance at Crowley. And then, in recent years, something else in relation to Crowley. Something that Aziraphale neither understands nor cares to name or think about. When Aziraphale is working, it's easy not to think about it. Not to think about all of the mistakes he's making, about how many steadfast rules he's breaking. Sure, Crowley is different than the other demons. Sure, he's saved Aziraphale's life countless times. Sure, his hair sometimes catches in the light and it makes Aziraphale's heart rise into his throat.

Sure, sometimes Aziraphale can't take his eyes off of him.

But all of that is besides the point. Aziraphale has a sacred duty, and having the Angels send him away felt like his insides had been torn out. Every time he made a decision, he would wonder what his lot would think, before realizing that he doesn't have a lot anymore. And every time, it makes Aziraphale feel as if he's missed a step, and just barely stops himself from tumbling down.

Aziraphale doesn't trust the Angels, and he doesn't worship them. If he learned anything in that week, months ago, it was that the Angels were anything but perfect, and that they were anything but Angelic, really. The blind faith Aziraphale had placed in them his entire life was ill-founded at best.

But Aziraphale needs a cause. He needs a mission. And he can't tell, honestly, when the Angels come to his bookshop that Saturday morning, if there's just a little bit of a miraculous push from them that makes him say yes. But he says it. He can't tell, still, if there's a little bit of a haze in his head, or if it's just his muddied thoughts. It reminds him of nights getting drunk with Crowley—but no. Aziraphale pushes Crowley from his mind.

Crowley has always been a bit of an enigma to Aziraphale. A dear one, but an enigma nonetheless.

"You'll be meeting with the Angels in charge of your, um, situation, in just a moment," Gabriel says.

"Oh, I just thought—well, you've been my, my manager for ever so long, and I expected—"

"Please don't use that word—manager. It's a human term. I prefer to think that I helped you along, gave you a little nudge when you needed one."

"I—yes. Um—is this the room?" he asks, as Gabriel pushes open a door.

"Yep. We'll, I'll see you—I'll see you never, I guess," Gabriel says, and laughs.

"Excuse me—what? What do you—" Aziraphale stammers, but Gabriel's gone before he finishes. Aziraphale sits down in the chair in the center of the room, feeling a little flustered and off-kilter. The room is spacious and open and just like any room in Heaven, with the exception of one wall along the side. It makes Aziraphale feel even more strange.

What Gabriel said must mean something normal, something innocent. Aziraphale's being assigned a new manager—helper, Aziraphale, helper—and it's normal not to see Angels who you aren't working with. Especially since Aziraphale is going to be working on Earth. Of course, that must be what it is. What else could it mean?

Three Angels Aziraphale doesn't recognize walk into the room from a door at the far end, which seals shut. The walk primly, in a straight line, and come to a stop in front of Aziraphale. "Oh, good," Aziraphale says. "Shall we get started, then?"

"There are some papers you need to sign, first," the Angel in the middle says. She's got long black hair lying in a braided coil on top of her head, with gold woven through it. "We'll be right with you." She places a silver file in Aziraphale's hands, and he looks down at it, baffled. They'd never used forms; Angels never lied, so all promises were made by word, during special ceremonies.

"This is...highly unprecedented," Aziraphale says, looking down at the papers and back up again.

"New procedures," she says, smiling tightly at him. Aziraphale smiles back, unsure. "We'll be right with you," she says again.

"Yes, I...heard you the first time," he says, adding the last part in quietly, after they're out of earshot. There's a window along the side of one of the walls, showing the hallway outside. Another thing that Aziraphale isn't used to. Gabriel is standing there, looking rather more harried than usual, and he pounces on the three Angels as soon as they exit the room. They speak in hushed voices, and anyway, the walls have always appeared to be what the humans call soundproofed.

Wonderful things, humans. It occurs to Aziraphale that by taking this offer, he might have left them all behind. What if his new job is in Heaven, to keep him out of trouble? God forbid he get a desk job—he would wither away, and that's absolutely unacceptable. Crowley is always telling him he's too cooped up in his bookshop all day, and a desk job would be even worse.

That's another thing that Aziraphale might be losing, taking this offer. That's another thing he is losing, really. The authorities will be keeping a much closer eye on Aziraphale from now on, and Aziraphale won't be able to afford to risk fraternizing.

A life without Crowley, well. Aziraphale tries to tell himself it won't be so unbearable. He'll have a job again, a mission.

But he'll lose the quiet nights in the bookshop. He'll lose the drunken conversations on rainy afternoons. He'll miss those moments when he looks up to see Crowley smiling at him, every so quietly, ever so subtle, when the entire world is suddenly lit up with hope.

Aziraphale holds the sheaf of paper up so that he can see it, and starts flipping through it. All of them, every single one of them, is something that Aziraphale has already sworn to do. Never violate the Angel's code. And then, following that, a list of the rules. No fraternizing with demons; also known as the enemy...No using of miracles in unnecessary situations...If something is written in the Grand Plan, an Angel must never try to stop it. Aziraphale supposes he's already broken half of these rules, really. Or more than half.

Aziraphale looks through the window again, eyebrows drawing together. Gabriel is alone now, and Aziraphale can see the three Angels scurrying off in the distance. Gabriel's distracted, looking in the other direction.

Why the window? Why all of the forms, every one of them completely unnecessary?

And the question that Aziraphale has been avoiding even thinking about since the offer arrived—why would they forgive him, after everything he's done?

Have they forgiven him?

"Excuse me," Aziraphale cries suddenly, waving a hand through the window. Gabriel sees and waves back, misunderstanding. Damn these soundproofed walls. Aziraphale rushes to the door, reaching to lay a hand on it, but it swings inwards, coming within and inch of hitting him squarely in the face. Close enough that he feels the air move in front of him. Gabriel's standing in the doorway.

"Why don't you back up a bit?" Gabriel asks, smiling down at him.

"I—yes, of course." There's a pause, and then, "Why?"

"We'd rather you not leave the room, not until you've signed the forms."

"Um, yes, I'd been meaning to ask—what is the use of the forms exactly? There are prior procedures, you see, that are already in place. I can go through them again, of course, but I can't seem to understand why things are going so differently this time around."

"Well, you broke them the first time around, you see."

Aziraphale nods quickly. "Yes, yes—alright. If you don't mind me asking," he takes a breath, "Crowley. Is Hell taking him back as well?"

"Crowley has been taken care of, don't you worry."

Taken care of. Aziraphale draws in another breath and arranges his face in what he hopes comes across as somewhat like a smile. "Alright, then. Better get to those forms."

Gabriel smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Better."

As soon as Gabriel leaves, Aziraphale hurries to the chair and sits, taking out the forms again. He snaps his fingers, and a mahogany desk appears, not unlike the one in his bookshop. He places the forms there and takes a pen out of his jacket pocket, but doesn't start writing.

Several things go through the Angel's head. Firstly, the window. Why would one Angel need to be able to see what another Angel is doing, in a separate room? Angels trust each other; it's part of the job description.

Secondly, the forms. There were already procedures in place for making vows. And Aziraphale had broken them. But with that unpleasant fact in mind, why would the Angels have any reason to forgive Aziraphale? Why are they taking him back, even after he's fallen?

And finally, Crowley, and what the Archangel Gabriel had said. Crowley has been taken care of. A simple sentence, one that could mean a great number of things. Especially when paired with the above two points.

Aziraphale looks around, at the empty sky outside the window, at the crisp white walls, at the Angels rushing orderly about through the window on the other wall. He takes a deep breath, mutters a prayer. Mutters goodbye.

And then he shuts his eyes and snaps his fingers.

* * *

When Aziraphale miracles his way into Hell, he's wearing a musty hood over his clothes and is, frankly, disgusted. The ground is grimy, the people here are frightfully rude, and to top it all off, the fabric in his hood is much too scratchy.

"Excuse me," he says, smiling apologetically at the demon standing in front of the door.

"Oh, is there someone to take over standing guard? Thank fuck," he says, and walks off, seeming to make extra sure he bumps into Aziraphale on the way.

"Demons," Aziraphale grumbles, shaking his head, "awfully impolite."

Angels—and demons, Aziraphale supposes, now that he knows they aren't so different after all—have the miraculous and often very useful ability to detect when other angels and demons are nearby. People as well, although their 'signals' aren't as strong. Normally, Aziraphale can't actually tell the different between Angels or Demons until they're in sight, but Crowley, well. Six thousand years is a long time to get to know someone. Basically, Aziraphale knows the Crowley is through the door, and because of this is feeling a certain amount of apprehension.

Aziraphale pats his hip, where the flaming sword had hung, six thousand years and a whole separate lifetime ago. Aziraphale had been a different person, before Earth. He's not entirely sure if he's grateful for the past six millennia or not. But there's no time to think about that now.

Azirpahale doesn't have his flaming sword, but he does have another weapon. A spray bottle, like Crowley told him he'd used to threaten Hastur just a day before the supposed end of the world. And it is filled with holy water, taken from a charming little church only a couple streets down from Aziraphale's bookshop. He's not going to use it, of course—he hasn't killed anyone until today, and he is definitely not ready to start now. But it's good. Insurance, like Crowley had said.

He contemplates praying, then decides it's probably not for the best. He's already fallen from Heaven and broken into Hell. As much as he'd like to believe that everything he and Crowley does is part of the ineffable plan after all, it's much more likely that God herself is extremely angry with him.

Instead, he just pushes the door open and steps inside.

Crowley is alone, hands tied behind his back, strapped to a chair. Lying on a table beside him is a briefcase, shut and latched. "Aziraphale," he cries, "what are you—"

"Crowley," Aziraphale breathes, and then, hurriedly, "No time for questions." He rushes forward and tries to undue the bonds. "Oh, am I too late? Oh, heavens, please tell me I'm not too late."

"Too late for what?" Crowley asks, taking his now-free hands and folding them in front of him. "S'not like they were gonna use holy water. We took care of that, remember?"

"Thank goodness. It would have been just awful if I'd come to save you just to miss my chance," Aziraphale says, trying to laugh. He doesn't want to sound as relieved as he is, which is to say, very. It's as if he's been holding his breath ever since he heard Gabriel say Crowley's been taken care of.

Crowley stands up, stretches a little. And then he freezes, staring at something over Aziraphale's shoulder.

"What the Hell is going on here?" Beelzebub's voice is a snarl, and it chills Aziraphale to the bone. He spins to face her, and pulls the hood a little further over his eyes.

"Oh, I was just informed by the, uh, Demon Council, that Crowley here—ah—that the prisoner must be taken to a different area."

Beelzebub cocks her head. "I'm the superior authority in this case, Demon. I would have known."

"It was a—a last minute decision."

"I make all of the decisions regarding the traitor Crowley. Take off your hood, I don't recognize your voice."

"I—" Aziraphale starts, but Crowley interrupts him with a hand on his arm.

"Angel, just—stop."

Aziraphale glances from him back to the Demons. "But I—"

"You've got us," Crowley says, pulling Aziraphale's hood back himself. "We surrender. We're at your mercy."

Beelzebub gives him a long look, then jerks her chin at the Demon behind her. He—Hastur, Aziraphale guesses—steps eagerly toward Aziraphale, holding up a coil of rope that seems, unless Aziraphale's eyes are deceiving him, which they rarely are, to be moving.

"Not so fast," Crowley says from behind Aziraphale.

There he is, standing, somehow holding up the spray bottle of holy water, which seems to have mysteriously disappeared from Aziraphale's belt. "How did you—"

"Shush, Angel," he says, stepping forward. "So, tell me. Which would you rather? That you let us go, had us run off to frolic across Earth, messing up as many of your great plans as we like? Or that you die?" His finger twitches on the trigger.

Beelzebub steps back. "Is that—"

"Holy water, yes. In the flesh—well, in the…" he makes a face, "liquid."

Beelzebub hisses and steps back, but Hastur steps forward. "No, it's a trick. You already tried to pull this, didn't you? Months ago. And you were lying."

"Lying, was I?"

And before Aziraphale can hold a hand out or even say stop, he's sprayed the holy water on Hastur, and Hastur's flesh is bubbling, and he's sinking to the floor, and then Aziraphale has to look away. He hears a sickening hiss, like water on embers, and when he looks back, Hastur is nothing but a coat lying flat on the floor. "Oh, dear," Aziraphale says wretchedly. He hadn't wanted this.

"So what is it, Beelzebub? Let us go, or take a turn?"

Beelzebub hisses again, scowling. "We will find you again, and we will stop you," she growls.

"Will you?" Crowley asks haughtily, and he hands the holy water to Aziraphale. With the same hand, he picks his sunglasses off from the suitcase and puts them on with a flourish. He's had his other hand in his pocket this whole time, Aziraphale notices. "Time to go, Angel."

"I—yes," Aziraphale mutters, before following Crowley out the door.

* * *

"So what's the story behind that?" Crowley asks, gesturing to the holy water Aziraphale places on his desk once they reach the bookshop.

"Oh—well, I took a page out of your book, I suppose," Aziraphale says sheepishly. "Insurance."

"I'm flattered. Ready to kill someone just to save me?" Crowley looks up at him over his sunglasses, and something in Crowley's eyes makes Aziraphale desperately want to say yes. But he knows Crowley would be able to tell it's a lie. Six thousand years is enough time to get to know someone.

"Well, I wasn't planning to use it," Aziraphale says, unable to meet Crowley's eyes.

"Mm," Crowley hums, flopping down spread-eagled onto the sofa. Aziraphale walks over and perches himself awkwardly on the edge.

"Oh, do you want to sit?" Crowley says, and, through Aziraphale's protests, moves so that's he's sitting upright. Aziraphale sighs and sits down on the now-empty other half of the sofa.

"What's wrong with your hand?" Aziraphale asks cautiously.

Crowley widens his eyes. "Oh, that. I—"

"I just noticed you'd kept it in your pocket this whole time, and oh, Crowley, if I was too late, if they did something to you—"

"It's just—it's nothing, Angel. It's done."

"Show me," Aziraphale pleads. He reaches out, raising his eyebrows in a question.

Crowley looks at him steadily as he takes Crowley's hand out of his pocket, ever so gingerly, but he flinches slightly when Aziraphale gasps. "Careful," he cries.

"I'm sorry—I—"

"Angel, it's nothing."

It's not nothing. Crowley's right pointer finger is gone, cut clean off. Well, not so clean. His hand is streaked with blood. Crowley uses his right hand to do miracles, which means he'll never be able to do magic again. "Oh, Crowley, dear," Aziraphale says quietly, looking up at him. "I would say we could just get the body repaired, but—"

"But there aren't really any superiors to repair it, I know," Crowley says wryly, finally looking away from Aziraphale. Aziraphale feels strangely disappointed.

"I'll get a bandage!"

"No—that's not...necessary…" Crowley finishes, but Aziraphale is already rifling through the cabinets at the back of the bookshop, muttering to himself. Finally, he finds a first aid kit shoved behind a shelf of books on medicine, none of which he's read. He sits back down on the couch and begins dressing the wound, to the best of his knowledge.

"Do you know how to bandage...anything?" Crowley asks, eyebrows knitted.

"No, to be honest, but I suppose I can just—" He snaps his fingers, and in the blink of an eye, the bandage is on. Crowley nods. Aziraphale's not sure at what.

They sit there for a moment in silence, Aziraphale still holding Crowley's hand in his own. For some reason, he's a little bit reluctant to let go.

"Listen, Crowley—" Aziraphale starts, eventually. Crowley interrupts him. It's dreadfully rude, but Aziraphale finds he doesn't mind half as much as he did with the demon, before. Well, he does mind, because of the nature of what it is he wants to say, but it's not the same.

"Angel, if you're about to apologize—"

"No, no, that's not it, I—"

"Because that is not allowed, you are not allowed to apolo—"

"Crowley, will you please just shut up for a moment?" Aziraphale exclaims. Crowley raises his eyebrows and leans back. "Listen," he says, quieter now, "when I said I was hoping I wouldn't have used the holy water, that was—that was true. I don't want to kill anyone. But...I would have. If they were going to torture you."

"If they were going to torture me, I would have gotten myself out, angel," Crowley says flippantly, but he's lowered his glasses and is staring at Aziraphale in a way that makes Aziraphale's mouth go dry.

"Well, you didn't do too good a job of that, anyway," Aziraphale says, nodding at the bandaged hand. "And that's not the point. It's just—I didn't want it to seem like I didn't care."

"Oh, don't worry about that, Angel. You saved my life."

"Yes," Aziraphale says, smiling a little and puffs his chest out a little, proudly. "Yes, I did, didn't I?" He takes a breath, and then says, "Please take off those blasted sunglasses, they're frightfully distracting." Crowley makes an offended expression, and takes them off. "There's just…I like your eyes. I love them, actually," he says, with a little laugh. "I do love you, Crowley, and I want you to know that." Even though Aziraphale himself hadn't known, not until about three-quarters of a century ago. It had all started in the ruins of a church, with a bag of salvaged books. Unless you really thought about it, in which case it started long before that.

Aziraphale looks up, and Crowley opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Aziraphale waits, expectantly.

"Angel," Crowley says finally, smiling wryly, "the feeling is mutual. Obviously."

Azirpahale laughs, remembering a day in St. James's park, only a couple of centuries ago. "Obviously."


End file.
